


Five Things Gene and Sam Have No Name For

by halotolerant



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: 5 Things, M/M, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Five Things' fic written for Porntober Fest 2007</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things Gene and Sam Have No Name For

(1) 

 

There’s this thing they do. 

 

It doesn’t have a name. Maybe no one else has ever done it, and they invented it. 

 

They don’t know whose idea it was – one day they just…were. And then it had to happen every time and sometimes as a kind of bonus, a thing they can do wedged into a toilet cubicle or – once – under a canal bridge, unable to wait till they got home.

 

The thing is this: Gene holds Sam’s head, one hand either side of it in a vice, fixed steady and firm. 

 

Sam opens his mouth. Wide, really wide, but his lips are relaxed and soft. 

 

And Gene gets in front of him, over him, around him and Gene licks, tongue pointed and rough, all round the circle of Sam’s mouth, on the inside, near the edge. And Sam makes this noise – fuck, this noise – like nothing else on Earth and every time Gene gets the tiny contour behind the cleft at the top, Sam _shakes_. Like, once, twice, three times and Sam’s hard as rock and he’ll almost weep with it. 

 

Really, it must look stupid. Or disgusting. But no one’s looking. 

 

It’s them, and it’s their’s.

 

\- - -

 

(2) 

 

Gene has words and names for more sexual acts than the Bible even got round to prohibiting. He can make lewd suggestions in the language of metaphor, slang or cuisine, can insinuate filth with one infinitesimal motion of his hand. 

 

But the night when Sam hovered over him, flushed and beaded with sweat, working his hand frantically at Gene’s cock, stroking and aiming it, and caught the full ejaculation on his belly, and whimpered and touched it and licked his hand…

 

Gene couldn’t breathe, watching. Maybe that’s why no name would come. 

 

But the next time, the next night, he still couldn’t think what it was, couldn’t think how to ask for it again.

 

And something about describing it made him inexplicably, unspeakably shy.

 

\- - -

 

(3)

 

If they were girls…well, actually, no, if one of them was a girl.

 

Which, obviously, would be Sam, Gene points out to himself.

 

If Sam was a girl, then, they might call this a ‘date’. Because if you go and eat food with a girl somewhere, and watch them – mouth and hands, and swallowing, legs and arse, that stuff – and practically rip their clothes off when you get home, even though you’ve said something stupid about ‘come in for coffee’, that’s dating.

 

But Sam isn’t a girl. And besides, you’d never take a bird down the ‘Taj Mahal’ if you wanted her to let you have some. You’d have to go to some poncey restaurant where you felt uncomfortable and make small talk about something you weren’t interested in but birds were, like orphans or weather or something.

 

So it isn’t dating. 

 

But it isn’t two mates going out for a curry, either, not the way it makes Gene feel each time he asks Sam if he’s free that night.

 

Not the way Sam looks at him across the cheap Formica table, eyes lit with candles and other things, watching Gene – mouth and hands, and swallowing, legs and arse, all of it – making Gene know he’s got a very male man out with him. 

 

This obviously shouldn’t make it more like romance, whatever _it_ is. 

 

But it does.

 

\- - -

 

(4) 

 

“It’s not…I mean, Sam, it’s just…you can give it back if you want.”

 

“No, it’s lovely. Thank-you. Really, I mean it, it’s lovely…but, um, Gene, what is it?” 

 

“It was a stupid idea, look, they’re all waiting out there with the balloons and cake, and we ought to join them.”

 

“Gene…”

 

“I thought I told you not to touch me in the office?”

 

“Gene, please, sit down again. Tell me.”

 

“I was drunk.”

 

“No you weren’t. You’ve wrapped it in tissue paper.”

 

“Yes, that’s just like you, Sam, with your irritating logic.”

 

“Gene – no, don’t pull your hand away, they can’t see through the blinds can they? God, you’re sweating like you’ve got to give a speech or something. Are you afraid of me?”

 

“No, s’just, hard to explain, is all.”

 

“Whereas trying to explain your Roger Whittaker LP collection to me was a piece of cake? Mmmm, keep stroking my hand and you almost might sidetrack me.”

 

“Now you mention it…”

 

“I said ‘almost’. Look, you gave this to me for a reason, and much as I would appreciate it as a birthday present anyway, I think I deserve the reason too.”

 

“Wuzmymofers…”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“It was my mother’s. She, um, she was in love with this bloke, see. And he went off to war, the Great War. Love of her life. Took her almost nine years to really believe he was never coming back. Killed at Ypres, I think. Anyhow she married my Dad, finally, in 1927, but she kept that ring, his ring, the one he gave her on his last leave home, all the rest of her life. Not that that was very long.”

 

“Gene, I…”

 

“It’s probably too small for you but I wasn’t really expecting you to wear it, I mean, she never did. And like I say, it’s stupid and…”

 

Mhmmmm

 

“ _Now_ do you believe I like it?”

 

“…come back here, Sam…yes…”

 

“Mmmm…now, come on, Gene, we’ve got a party to try and find an excuse to leave in say, what, ten minutes? Can we wait ten minutes?”

 

“Only one way to find out – eleven minutes from now, see if I’m doing you over DC Carling’s desk.”

 

\- - -

 

(5)

 

Sometimes it’s not so much not having the words, as not being able to say them.

 

Again, with birds, Gene’s found, you have to say lots of things you don’t mean precisely at the point where you only care about the thing you’re not supposed to mention.

 

Whereas now, with Sam, the things that were unspeakable have become a language of their own. And formerly cheap words are now too costly even to whisper.

 

The code is not straightforward, but certain things are understood. 

 

When Gene lets Sam fuck him:

 

_I trust you._

 

When Sam gives Gene a long, slow, blowjob, thin strokes of tongue and feathery touches from his fingers. Draws it out, slow and steady, makes Gene curse and stops, waits and starts again, until Gene’s eyes roll back and it’s like Sam’s in his veins. When Sam pants, turned on by turning on Gene, bites his own hand for a moment to keep from touching himself, finally comes with no touch at all, the second Gene finally spills into his mouth:

 

_I want to make you feel good._

 

When Gene lags a few steps behind Sam as they walk to the car, just to watch his arse, tight as apples in a stocking:

 

_I find you attractive._

 

When Gene was shot in the arm and Sam cried out like a haunted man, punched the shooter to the ground and punched him again, out cold as he was. Ran to Gene and held him up, pressing his fingers to the wound and turning whiter than Gene had. Whispering “Don’t you fucking dare, don’t you fucking dare” in his ear, and refusing to leave his side until he’d seen him home:

 

_You matter to me._

 

And then there’s this: Sam shaking in Gene’s arms, Gene’s tongue in his mouth, Sam making this noise that has no form, the coolness of the ring he wears on his right little finger striking through to Gene’s neck, both of them sated and tangled together and still wanting to be that bit closer. 

 

That means something, but it’s not something you can code or symbolise, not something you can say without the words, not for certain, not with power.

 

They draw back, sometimes, and look at each other, Sam’s eyes intense as ink, Gene struggling to breathe, struggling to keep his beating heart in his chest, to keep his feelings in his mind, safe and silent.

 

One day, one day soon, he knows he will name them.


End file.
